


Apollo's Misery

by OpalLight



Series: the sun seekers [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Adults, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Dominance, M/M, Male Slash, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalLight/pseuds/OpalLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altair's love was never gentle, Malik reconed bitterly. It was a sick obsession, a disease. And yet, he couldn't find a soul he felt closer to. Altair/Malik, non-con elements, m/m.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apollo's Misery

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a long, long time ago, and I would strongly offer you read a prequel of a sorts, Poppy Field, before [or actually even after] this. I hope you enjoy my work, as messy and scattered as it might be.

Malik is, to most, unreachable. A man who had coiled himself with grief and hurt so deep it was enough to push him into a far-off corner of society, where he is content with his complete solitude.

 

Altair, sadly, does not take that fact into consideration. He knows the solace of isolation, and knows all too well that even it's sweet charms of being free of any reckless emotions such as worry or care, he has to admit that even he feels the faint yank drawing him towards finding comfort in another human.

 

He is watching the dark-skinned man hunched over his wooden counter, adorned by dark spots of ink in various stages of freshness. He doesn't pay any attention to Altair's constant gaze, loyal to his form alone. His dark brown eyes are set on a fresh parchment, where he occasionally draws a precise line guided by a limber wrist.

 

A few minutes later, Malik sets his feather aside and buries his fingers in a wet cloth, wiping excess ink off them. "What is it that you want, Altair," he demands, sucking a deep breath in and making his way around the counter and towards the small garden where the master assassin is watching his every movement.

 

It is an early evening hour, but the sun is still rather high in the sky, rendering even Jerusalem's dry air heavy in the lungs.

 

Altair presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Malik is bathed in the golden rays, kissed and loved by their warmth, their ethereal caress over his bronzed skin. He looks like a sun god, the taller assassin decides as he watches the man in front of him with wide eyes, blazing and dominant even in his tiered hours, and so far out of reach…

 

"Answer me," the dai demands, his strong jaw set with irritation. "Stop looking at me like a starving man and tell me what you need!" he growls through his teeth so his voice distorts. "For half a day you have been sitting here, never moving your eyes from me. I haven't minded it at first, but if you do not have a mission, then why are you even here in the first place? Shouldn't you be back at Masyaf, waiting for your next mission?" he hissed, his shoulders are tight now, set high over his collar.

 

Altair still doesn't answer, which only serves to annoy the one armed man further. "Altair," Malik warns, his eyes narrowing dangerously, irritation bold over his face like an ugly dab of red over pure white.

 

"You," the assassin finally answers, looking up at Malik from under the secure barrier of his cowl.

 

"Take it off," the dai filters tightly, his only hand already reaching to yank the damn piece of cloth off. This is not fair! Altair shouldn't cower away behind that cursed cowl, shouldn't hold his answers back from Malik, when he should grovel and beg in front of his legs like the lowlife the other assassin is.

 

Altair turns his face sideways then, unwilling to succumb to Malik's demands. He feels awkward- bothered to the very marrow of his bone, with his skin coating with goose bumps like a wild rash.

 

"Obviously," Malik throws one hand up in the air. "Stop staring at me like that, you'll pop your poor excuse of eyes out," he spits angrily before whirling around, his dark blue robes following his movements obediently, empathizing just how irritating Altair was to their master right now.

 

A moment later, the taller assassin is already climbing out, taking refuge in one of the nearest roof gardens as he stares at the sun long enough for him to see spots of green and yellow and purple behind his eyelids as he blinks. He couldn't care less if he went blind though, watching the sun's golden glory is the closest he can get to drown his sore and tiered eyes in the delight of Malik's regal posture.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Later that night, when the sun has already escaped behind the vast horizon, and right before Malik has locked the hatch of the bureau, Altair manages to slip inside, landing on the colorful carpet with a quiet 'thump'.

 

"You're back," the shorter man states tiredly, the long hook used to locking the roof entrance already at hand. "Didn't you leave the city yet? Al-mualim must be waiting for you," he mutters, all anger drained from him as well as energy, it seems.

 

"I don't want to leave yet," Altair answers truthfully, standing up on his two feet. He is taller than Malik, and to many perhaps more impressive, but the assassin feels so pale in comparison to he other man's rich air, cascading around him in wide waves- demanding absolute respect from others.

 

So bright, like an earthbound Apollo that has been rudely denied of his residence with the other gods in order to spare the cruel earth some of his grace.

 

"Why? What is it that you seek here, when there is clearly nothing for you in this place," Malik drags the wooden fence shut and twists the small lock with the long hook.

 

"You," Altair repeats his answer from earlier that day.

 

"Nonsense," Malik mutters back at him. "Is this some sick idea of a joke you have, Altair?" he sighs, placing the hook back against the wall and watching the man from the corner of his eye.

 

"No."

 

"You are frustrating me," the one armed man groans. "If it is me you seek, then why?" he mutters, brow furrowing as he attempts to find reason in the other's words.

 

Altair doesn't answer. Words have never been his virtue. Instead, he takes a few steps towards the shorter man and stands in front of him.

 

"Altair," Malik warns, his eyes narrowing.

 

"Let me stay the night," the assassin demands, voice empty of emotion yet urgent all the same, and Malik never fails to notice that.

 

"There are plenty of rooms for the journeymen and assassins on missions," the dai notes with a low voice.

 

"No, not one of the rooms. Your room," Altair doesn't even shake his head, just stares from under the safety of the cloth spilling in front of his eyes.

 

"What are you even… Are you delirious Altair?" Malik bristles, the bottom lids of his eyes rising in obvious irritation. "Go find your own room," he adds a moment later in a sore tone.

 

Altair doesn't listen though, he was never too keen on following orders. It was a small wonder Al-mualim had managed to tame a spirit as unruly as Altair's.

 

True to his nature, the taller assassin yanks Malik towards his own room, his fist too tight and legs too steady to allow the other man have any fruit-bearing attempt at stopping him.

 

With a quick twist of a key, the door to Malik's personal room is locked, and Altair is left with the other man in solitary company.

 

"What is the meaning of all this?!" the dai hisses, his fingers fanned out and curled like the talons of a beast. "Altair! Listen to me when I am talking to you!"

 

But all the threats fly right over the taller assassin's head. He pushes against Malik, forcing him back until the back of the man's knees meet with a layer of cotton cloth spread over a mattress and force him to tumble back against his own bed, with Altair following his fall.

 

The air is thick and both of them find it somewhat of a challenge to breathe normally. Altair's hands slip under Malik's dark-blue coat, peeling it from with man with both hands in spite of his resistance. If Malik wanted him off, he would have managed to throw him away, the taller assassin assures himself, staring at the man trapped underneath him now dressed in the white assassin robes.

 

It's an awkward sight; Malik looks almost naked with only the white cloth over his body, and it almost makes the taller assassin want to stop at this point.

 

Almost.

 

Malik's leather belt, now half the width of Altair's own and empty of throwing knives, is next to go. With a swift yank of it's inner buckle, he releases the Dai's belt, discarding it on the floor like a toy he no longer takes interest in.

 

"Altair, don't…" Malik's words die on his lips as the taller man presses their lips together. The kiss is robbed of any possible tenderness it might have been intended to have. Urgent, raw and demanding is all he manages to muster up as a way to express his awkward adoration towards the dai.

 

At the kiss, Malik moans, struggling to free his arm at first but his protests are quick to vanish- Altair is like a python, the more you struggle against him, the better the trap he had set for you works. There was no shaking that man off- at least not for Malik.

 

Cloth sash and boots are released and toed off, leaving the dai in his tunic, cowl and leggings while Altair is still fully dressed. In a swift movement, the assassin releases his hand from Malik's wrist and lets them tug the white fabric up the other's abdomen.

 

The sight is breathtaking, and while Altair may realize that Malik's torso is not very different from most men you could find in this region. Altair's own body would be a far more exotic choice to go by, but taking pleasure in your own body isn't as satisfactory as doing so with another, or doing so with Malik, to be accurate.

 

A strangled moan flees from between the dai's lips like a scared bird, quickly dissolving in the security the shadowed corners provide. In a world ruled by consuming need and shameless carnal desires, Malik can only struggle so much before giving in to the scorching kisses and cruel bites and letting himself embrace the throb of sharp pain that comes with every touch Altair bestows upon him. The taller man probably doesn't realize how his actions might sting the other man; to him, it seems that he is busy with the delicate task of worshipping a god.

 

No visible patch of skin is left unattended- save for Malik's left arm. His shoulders, collar, face, torso and stomach are all engulfed in a myriad of angry red marks from both scratches and kisses. The left arm though, is too sacred for Altair to touch. He knows better than to go there and risk the delicate state of need his dai has finally accepted upon himself. There are lines not even Altair allows himself to cross.

 

Long and agonizing is the trail of kisses he leaves on Malik's exposed abdomen, each reminding more of an angry scar than a mark of affection. _Altair's love_ , Malik reckons with bitter soberness, _is never tender. It's consuming and hurtful. It's not love at all, it's a sick obsession. A disease._ And yet he can't help but succumb to the colossal presence of the man's company. Abusive as it might be, it strokes some golden chord deep inside the one armed dai's chest, something dark and ugly he wishes to hide and coils under layers of denial and neglect.

 

Altair is the only one able to reach it, to tweak that deep desire inside the other man just right, enough to throw him into a struggle with his own dearly beloved morals.

 

It was amusing, almost like waltzing with two partners, with both pulling him at their direction… Morals never won; Nobody could win against Altair's adamant determination, the man who would have fate under his foot if so he wished. He hated the feeling of helplessness he got each time Altair decided to act on one of his quirks, and at the same time, secretly adored how the man could play him like a finely tuned instrument.

 

Altair's kisses reached his pelvis by now, yanking at the surprisingly tender skin before leaning back and breathing against the dai's hardened member, watching it with childish fascination.

 

A single glance was thrown at Malik's face before Altair took him into his mouth, the warm cavern engulfing tense skin and flesh.

 

The one armed man's head rolled back with a deep groan, his body arching into the touch and forgetting all the previous will to fight. So good, this burning pleasure Altair's lips and tongue spilled over his shameful need. Malik's fingers curled into a tight fist, blunt nails digging into the inside of his palm.

 

With a quiet groan, Altair takes all of Malik inside his mouth, not bothering with ceremonies of letting the man gradually into his mouth. The one armed man needs none of it, he reckons, his lips pressing against the flat pelvis and milking a delicious array of sounds.

 

It doesn't take too long for the dark skinned man to start writhing, his body betraying him and asking for more of that merciless warmth around his flesh. He gets none of that though, instead, Altair releases the swollen manhood with a gentle 'pop'. A single glace at his face is enough to send Malik's face on fire to the very tips of his ears- the assassin's lips are red and abused, like twin peels of a ripe apple marred by that pale scar, his eyes are wide and piercing- a clashing contrast to the wet softness of the man's lips, and his cheeks are messy with spittle and sweat, some of the wet mix catching onto whatever facial hair Altair does have.

 

With a small, lopsided grin, the assassin traverses further down, his mouth planting itself onto the dai's heavy sac and then downward. Like always- he misses no patch of skin to explore.

 

Finally, he sinks his head deep between Malik's legs, forcing his knees apart with his two palms (not that he has to struggle so much, the other male is half-willing anyway and his resistance is no fiercer than a rag doll's). His tongue probes at the tight ring of muscles before he lets his front teeth graze it, earning him a yowl of protest and Malik sucking his muscles inside.  
  
"Relax," he informs, which actually sounds a lot more like a demand (like almost everything Altair says does, really), and moves his hands to place Malik's legs around his shoulders while he keeps digging the small entrance loose with recurring abuse of teeth and lips.

 

Malik does comply eventually, relaxing enough for Altair to push a single, wet finger inside, making the male in front of his stir and let out a small puff of breath.

 

A second one is quick to follow, forcing it's way into the warm and narrow passage, feeling it's way around the surprisingly soft tissue. Malik feels those touches inside as dull little probes, the same way if feels to touch scarred skin dead of nerves.

 

His single hand reaches to Altair's hood, attempting to grasp the piece of cloth with his unstable fingers, only to have his palm swatted away by an angry hand. Altair does not appreciate being unveiled even by the man he allows himself get intimate with.

 

At that very moment he seems all too fragile, a great master assassin (or former master, to be accurate) fearing someone of seeing him without his hood on… It is almost ridiculous. There are far worse things- but Altair is not just anyone, and his mind works in peculiar ways, Malik has to remind himself.

 

So lost in his own thought, he almost chokes on his own breath as a third finger is added inside, making his backside spasm in a non-too-comfortable way. Thankfully though, Altair is quick to distract him with tight and precise jerks of his member. Not more than a couple of moment later, Malik already has his head rolled back and chest rising and falling in quick breath.

 

Altair watches him like a raptor, breathing through his mouth and never letting his eyes stray from the dai's face. His legs, by the way, are still around the assassin's shoulders, and are now curled at the toes to the point where they start feeling a tad cool from all the blood being forced away by sheer pressure.

 

Malik rolls his head from one side to another but refuses to make a sound. He knows this is what pleases Altair most, but some vain and stubborn part in him refuses to let them into the air, strangling the moans and pleas before they have a chance to be born.

 

Finally, Altair decides he has had enough of this, and gets up on his knees, eyes scorching Malik's skin ever under the safety of his cowl. His gaze gluttons on every piece of naked flesh  offered to it, leaving no place unattended, and the dai feels it- feels his captor exposing him layer by layer until he is no more than a quivering mass of flesh and emotions guzzling from one corner to another like frightened rabbits.

 

The tip of Altair's manhood is pressed against Malik's behind, fitting snug and comfortable between two globes of flesh. He lets out a sigh of relief, not far from the one a tiered traveler would give upon finding an oasis days after his water had ran out.

 

No warning is given before he penetrates, quick and steady into the other male's body, arching his back and summoning an animalistic roar from the pit of his lungs. Malik is his now. Nobody would take Malik. He marked him, nobody is allowed to as much as look at his personal divinity with adoration less he wants to feel the assassin's fury.

 

Pain is quick to pick onto the dai's pelvis, causing the man to cringe and squirm and attempt to shake it off, but the nerve-fraying sensation sticks to his muscles like sap. He huffs, opening his eyes just a squint as he stares at Altair above him, holding his own legs over two broad shoulders and lost in his own trance as he pounds in a steady 'tap-tap-thump' rhythm against Malik. Slow for now, but never yielding. Altair takes no breaks when doing this, he knows.

 

The shorter man lets his neck go slack- the rest of his body is still shivering as the pain slowly settles into a numbness of being filled. Shy, self-conscious ardor climbs up his body through his veins, igniting his whole being with something greater any carnal pleasure could ever offer.

 

This is what Malik hates the most about Altair. How he can be the only one to make him submit into something so shameful and although he may feel remorse yanking at his conscience for it, he will never regret.

 

Malik bites his bottom lip, taking a fractured breath and holding it deep inside his chest as he feels hips slamming onto his own, digging Altair's swollen member deep inside. Warmth gushes from the pit of his stomach in thick waves as the assassin's movements get more and more frantic, clumsy almost, as he picks up his pace, smacking sounds getting louder and Malik is sure at least half of Jerusalem can hear them- blended with his occasional moans of pleasure.

 

Right now though, the dai couldn't care less; Drowned so deep inside his own need for closeness to another human- as human as Altair is to him, anyway.

 

The flow of warmth turns into violent waves as the other man angles his hips just so, and Malik is sure he is going blind, for his eyes darken and vibrant colors start specking his vision, buzzing around like bees.

 

Altair doesn't seem too far from his climax either, with how his lips keep moving in silent prayer, almost as if he is possessed. His soundless whispers are every so often marred by an occasional groan or hiss of pleasure- the only sign he is enjoying it (probably much, much more than Malik himself does, the dai notes solemnly).

 

It is a small while later that the one armed man spills his essence over Altair's and his own chest. Warm ropes of white shoot from his manhood, splashing in clumsy curls over heated skin.

 

Altair isn't too far behind, and pushes Malik's limp legs further up his shoulders, driving himself deep-deep inside the other's warmth.

 

The dai's body protests, thrashing and flailing as he demands of the other to stop, but to no avail, Altair is far too determined to pull back and allow him a moment of respite and there is no changing his steel-forged will.

 

Only when he reaches his peak, does Altair stop, panting and spent, he draws back, still hard member slipping back into view slick and angry-red.

 

"Go away," Malik hisses at him once his hips are back on the bed. "Go away before I manage to get up and dig your eyes out of their sockets!" he exclaims, voice panicked now and body trembling. The warmth pooling between his legs offers nothing of the pleasure it did only a few moments ago. Now it's murky and sticky liquids that fills him, not even the man's manhood-which might hurt, Malik decides, but is still ways better than just him semen.

 

Altair licks his lips, leaning down to press a close-mouthed kiss to the corner of Malik's mouth, before moving outside the room, already wiping himself over the edge of his robes and fixing them back behind the closer door of Malik's room.

 

Alone now, the dai allows himself to curl into fetal position and stares at his only hand. Altair is both a curse and a blessing- as much as he might deny the latter part. Malik's soul is malnourished when it comes to love, the one armed man realizes, and his mouth tastes bitter.

 

Altair was the one to bring him closeness, as painful and impersonal as it is… He is the only one to willingly offer that, and Malik is as thankful as he is upset.

 

Altair never stays. Never talks about it, never _asks_ for it when he needs it… The whole deed exists only when his need for release arises, and is never regarded otherwise. Perhaps a clever decision, but also an incredibly painful one- Malik is very much human compared to his comrade, and demands stability Altair's nomad soul could never afford.

 

With pursed lips, he pushes himself up and limps his way to the bucket of water at the corner of his room, splashing some between his legs and hissing at the biting cold of it against his abused loins.

 

Altair is on the roof now, crouching over the edge and lending a sharp ear to any noises that might stray from the dai's window. Surely enough, faint sounds of splashing find their way to him, resting in the shell of his ear lazily. Several moments later, a rustle of sheets and a small sigh.

 

"Goodnight, Apollo," Altair mouths, pushing himself up and hopping onto the edge of another roof. He will sleep well tonight, carrying Malik's warmth deep inside him.


End file.
